


An Apology

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, followed by sweetness and silence, incarceration and creepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets arrested on a drug charge, and Mycroft rescues him from prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Apology

In the short time that he’d been incarcerated, he had catalogued each of the seven free-roaming individuals currently inside the building. He knew them by height, weight, length of stride, and four distinct ambulatory impediments.

Number five needed to book an appointment with a doctor. Arthritic hips should never be left untreated. 

It was therefore transparent to him when an eighth man approached his cell door behind the sergeant responsible for his arrest. 

More importantly, the identity of that eighth man was also transparent — and unequivocally pompous, even at a distance. 

The lock in the door clanged. It resonated through the metal and into his head, and Sherlock reluctantly reached out to steady himself against the wall of his cell. The door slowly swung open. 

Sherlock straightened up, pursed his lips, and marched out. 

The sergeant responsible for his arrest reached out to grab him, but Mycroft Holmes — the eighth man — stopped him by very deftly catching the sergeant across the chest with the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock, unperturbed, kept walking. 

The sergeant’s nostrils flared angrily. 

“Now look here, Mr. Holmes,” he started. 

Mycroft smiled politely. “Thank you, Sergeant Morris.” 

“If I get ‘im in here a second time—” 

“Second?” Mycroft interrupted. 

Sergeant Morris’s thick eyebrows came together in a puzzled grimace. 

“I’m afraid my younger brother has never set foot inside this building,” Mycroft explained, withdrawing his umbrella. 

Unfortunately, that particular conclusion was a step above the sergeant’s pay-grade. His mouth twisted into a sneer, and he held up a finger in what men mistakenly believed was a threatening gesture. 

Mycroft calmly nested his umbrella in the crook of his arm. 

“He’s still got to sign that paper.” 

“Sign which paper, Sergeant?”

“The one what shows you’re taking him out of here.” 

“Taking whom exactly?”

Sergeant Morris was rapidly losing his temper. His face reddened and his shoulders hunched forward. “You have to sign that rotten little junkie out before you can have him!” 

Mycroft’s smile didn’t change. “There seems to have been a mistake.” 

“Now, look ‘ere!” 

“I think you’ll find that no member of my family has ever been here,” Mycroft told him. “Neither my brother, nor myself. Good evening.” He turned away. 

“What kind of bullshit is this?” Sergeant Morris shouted. “You can’t pull a bloody government cover up! We’ve got security cameras!” 

Mycroft didn’t stop. “Do you?” He called back. 

Sergeant Morris’s gaze tore away from Mycroft’s back to the corner where a surveillance camera should have been. It would have been pointed at the cell doors. It was even equipped to record sound, so they could monitor the temporary inmates from the computer at the front desk. 

There was no camera there. 

There was no sign that a camera had ever been there.

Morris looked back down, but Mycroft Holmes was gone. 

“How the fuck did ‘e do that?” He whispered, breaking out in a cold sweat. 

Mycroft returned to his car. Sherlock had vanished. 

He didn’t see his brother again for several days — but in the context of their relationship, anything less than three months was a startlingly short period of time. Three days was a matter of minutes, relatively speaking. 

Mycroft had a scotch to hand, and his eyes closed. 

Sherlock let himself into the house. He moved silently. His shoes never squeaked, and he knew the floorboards better than he knew the hair on his own head. But he was carrying a paper bag, that — for all its innocence — gave him away. 

Mycroft didn’t acknowledge him. 

The fire popped and crackled. A log collapsed in the back, sending a plume of red embers up into the chimney, but the elder Holmes only raised the glass to his lips. 

Sherlock stopped at the threshold. 

He scanned Mycroft from head to toe, assessing his brother in the same way that he did any stranger on the street. The only difference was that he stored the information in a mental database, of sorts. He kept tabs. The strangers he left to rot in a dusty cabinet in the back of his mind, but Mycroft…

Mycroft had an irritating file right at the front. 

Sherlock set his bag on the Chippendale table — an original, naturally, and one of Mycroft’s favourite pieces. 

He pulled out a large carton of ice cream, slick with condensation, and set it down on the table’s surface. 

Mycroft’s jaw tightened. He could feel the water seeping into the antique wood from several feet away. 

The word ‘non-fat’ printed across the side of the carton certainly didn’t help. 

Sherlock smiled. 

But he’d prepared for Mycroft’s disapproval. He had planned it, actually. One look at his older brother — the briefest glance — three days before had told him a great deal. A slight crease along the bottom of his vest — evidence of Mycroft’s increased concern with the fit of his clothes. The outline of a bottle in his pocket — it was almost too obvious. The tired, annoyed glimmer in Mycroft’s eyes — any other person might have assumed that it was a little brother’s recent arrest that caused that look, but Sherlock knew better.

Sugar, after all, was the most addictive substance known to man.

And Sherlock was not the Holmes family’s only addict. 

He pulled a bottle of chocolate fudge from his bag, as well as a canister of isobutane-propelled whipped cream. 

He shook the latter with a devilish glee.

Mycroft pursed his lips.

Sherlock, utterly undaunted, sauntered towards him as he pulled at the bright red, plastic top. Mycroft straightened up slightly, but Sherlock — fully cognisant of Mycroft’s reservation despite their wordless communication — sprayed a fluffy, white mound across his fingers.

He offered his hand to Mycroft silently. He didn’t have to state his intentions. His actions were obvious. 

Mycroft looked up into Sherlock’s eyes. His little brother’s pupils were so dilated that he could hardly see the bright, beautiful blue. 

He licked Sherlock’s fingers clean.


End file.
